From seeing what was real.
Because her marriage had been real and worth fighting for, no matter what Paul had done. And thinking back on his protestations of innocence, she'd begun to believe she'd made a grave mistake. In not believing in him—in not at least listening to what he had to say. And now it was too late.
Just like it was too late for her papa.
Her fingers reached instinctively for her silver locket. But it wasn't there. She'd placed it in the casket so her father wouldn't have to be alone.
Her temples throbbed. Her thoughts blurred. With a disorienting pang, she wondered if she'd wound her topknot too tightly as Paul had used to tease her for doing.
His voice drifted back her, "Why do you hide yourself?"
The truth hammered in her head.
Because I'm so afraid. So afraid you'll see me as I truly am ... and I'll be alone.
But wasn't she already alone?
The doorbell rang.
"Who would call at this time, with a mourning wreath on the door?" Mrs. Fines muttered.
There was the sound of voices, footsteps, and then the parlor door opened.
Mrs. Doppler came in first, her arms barring the entryway. "Mrs. Fines," the housekeeper said between short breaths. "I told the gent you weren't taking callers, but he wouldn't—"
Charity gasped as Mr. Garrity emerged in the doorway. Pushing the hapless housekeeper aside, he walked into the room. His somber outfit matched his onyx eyes.
"I came to pay my respects," he said, bowing.
Charity was on her feet in an instant. "How
dare
you come into my father's house," she said in a shaking voice.
"You'd better leave, Mr. Garrity, before we have you thrown out." Glaring at him, Percy rose to stand beside Charity. "You are not welcome here."
"I won't stay long. I merely came to offer my condolences." His smile had a razor's edge. "And to settle the matter of your father's debt to me."
"Have you no shame, sir?" Mrs. Fines said. "This is a time of mourning."
"Business waits for nothing, madam." Pulling a packet from his pocket, Garrity held it out to Charity. "Inside you'll find the details of our business arrangement. Your father borrowed quite a sum from me in the last year."
Charity snatched the paper from him. Her jaw dropped as she scanned the contents. "At the rate of
sixty
percent?"
"He was lucky to get money from anyone, given Sparkler's falling profits. I took a risk on him. But like a fool, he thought to reverse his and the shop's fortunes by investing the blunt. Mining ventures and the like." Garrity smoothed a wrinkle from his gloves. "Pardon the pun, but he kept digging himself into a bigger and bigger hole. Not my business, however. Now if your father had kept up his end of the bargain,"—his black gaze flicked over her, making her shiver not with cold but rage—"I'd have made things easier for him. Family ties and all."
"You're despicable," she said, her hands curling.
Garrity's eyes thinned. "And you're in debt. Thirty thousand pounds, to be precise."
The staggering figure elicited murmurs from Helena and Marianne. Percy, whom Charity had already filled in on the calamitous news, said belligerently, "That's an impossible sum to come up with at short notice."
"I'll grant you a month," Garrity said, "and consider that my parting gift to your father. But hear me well: if I don't have my thirty thousand pounds within that time, I will take the shop, this house, and everything else in your possession until the debt is paid." He bowed. "Good day, ladies."
Charity stood frozen as he exited.
"The snake!" Percy exclaimed. "When Mr. Hunt returns, I shall have him pay that slimy bounder a visit."
"Perhaps if Harteford and Hunt put their heads together," Helena ventured, "they might be able to arrange a loan of some sort ..."
"No." In a dull voice, Charity said, "That is an enormous sum, one that I'll never be able to pay back. I'll not involve anyone else in this."
Silence descended. Charity knew the others were contemplating the facts just as she was. She'd already lost her father and her husband. Now she would lose the shop, her home, what remained of her world as she knew it ...
She heard the others talking, mulling over possible solutions, and all of it seemed to come from a great distance. She grew lightheaded, a strange, crazed feeling spreading over her, as if she might burst from her skin. As if she
wanted
to. Being mad suddenly seemed preferable to holding onto her sanity, to containing the emotions pushing at her tightly stitched seams. What a relief it would be to just unravel ...
"Oh, you poor dear," Percy said in distraught tones. "Come, sit down—"
The doorbell rang again.
Marianne's brows shot up. "Good heavens, what
now
?"
They didn't have long to wait. Mrs. Doppler appeared moments later, her hands nervously twisting her apron. "Pardon, Mrs. Fines, but there's a lady to see you. I wouldn't have let her in, but she says ... that is, she claims ..."
"Step aside, if you please," the new voice commanded.
The housekeeper shrank back, and a lady outfitted in a navy frock swept in. In her buffle-headed state, it took Charity a second to recognize her.
"Mrs. Stone?" she said, blinking. "What ... what are you doing here?"
"My dearest Charity." The actress' eyes blazed. "I am here because I am your mother."
THIRTY-SIX
Charity stared at the actress. "Pardon?"
"It is the truth," Mrs. Stone said. "After all these years, I am free at last to come to you. My precious daughter, how I have longed for this moment."
"Holy Mother of God," Percy breathed.
"You're l-lying," Charity stammered.
"No, 'twas your father who lied to you, may God have pity on his soul." Mrs. Stone's chin lifted. "I am not dead as you can see."
A ringing started in Charity's ears. The actress' voice came at her as if strained through tin, setting bright sparks off in her head. Her senses wavered as reality began to fray.
"Charity, you'd better sit down."
Was that Percy's voice? Marianne's? She couldn't tell, could only stare at the woman who professed to be her mother and who had come back from the dead.
"But why?" she blurted. "Why did you leave us? Where have you been?"
Pain flashed across the actress' face, and Charity saw with disorienting acuity her own nose, her chin in the other's petite features ...
"I had to leave, my dear. I had no other choice." The navy plumes on Mrs. Stone's hat trembled. "If I hadn't, I would have perished ... my soul's essence drained from me."
Charity's heart thumped with dizzying force.
"I always wanted to be an actress. But against my will, my father arranged for me to wed Uriah. I knew from the start that our marriage was destined to be a tragedy." The other's voice vibrated with emotion. "Our happiness, what little we had of it, did not last for long. A year in, I gave birth to you—when I was but a girl myself—and my life turned suffocating. I was left alone, with no one to help me. I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat. The walls closed around me."
"I ... suffocated you," Charity said numbly.
"No—no, my dear girl, not you. My
life
. With Uriah, who never understood me ..." Mrs. Stone's hands fisted. "At first, he was drawn to my passionate nature, but then he grew to fear it—my power, my ambition. He tried to control me, to clip my wings, to make me feel that I was less than I was."
"So you just ... left?"
"My only regret was that I did not have the strength to take you with me. I barely had the means to take care of myself; how could I support a babe working as a fledging actress?" The other woman expelled a breath. "Despite what transpired between Uriah and me, I have
always
loved you. Not a moment has passed when I haven't thought of you."
"When
you
haven't thought of
me
?" The gust of fury propelled Charity out of her own body. 'Twas as if she were watching the scene from above, the words coming out of lips that she could not feel. "Do you know how many hours I've spent thinking of
you
? How badly I've longed for a mother all these years?"
"I have longed for you, too," the other said, her voice pleading. "That is why I have been following you in secret for years. From afar, I've watched you grow into the beautiful woman you are. When I received the Hartefords' invitation, I knew the time had come for us to meet again."
Mrs. Stone took a step toward her; Charity backed away.
"My precious daughter, I have done you a grievous wrong. But I am here for you now, in your time of need, and I will do everything in my power to make it up to you. Can you forgive me?"
Eyes bright, the actress held out her arms.
"Get away from me," Charity whispered.
Her temples pounded. Pain gripped her scalp, and her head felt on the verge of exploding.
So much pressure
. She stumbled, the back of her knees colliding with the coffee table. Objects rattled, splashed. Her gaze fell on the shears. The next instant they were in her hands. Cool silver. Glinting promise of relief.
"Charity, what are you—"
"Don't—"
She couldn't bear the agony for an instant more. As voices erupted around her, she shut her eyes. Took aim and lifted the blades.
When she was finished, she looked down to see pieces of herself lying on the floor. Her old brown locks ... gone. No longer a part of her. Her head felt light, weightless.
She looked up to a ring of pale faces.
Mrs. Stone was the first to break the silence.
"Oh, my darling girl ..." she said in a choked voice.
"Get out," Charity said flatly. "I never want to see you again."
*****
"A toast," Viscount Traymore said, "to the future Champion!"
As the crowd crammed into the smoky tavern cheered, Paul held up his foaming tankard at the head of the table.
"My thanks, lads." He shouted to be heard over the whistling and foot stomping. "Here's hoping the next fight goes as smoothly as the last!"
The ovation shook the low rafters, followed by more toasts and drunken congratulations. Paul took many slaps on the back, but none of the ale, and no one questioned him. Probably they chalked it up to one of the many eccentricities and superstitions that populated the sport. Ross Anderson, the fellow Paul had beaten in eight rounds this afternoon, boasted a dark hedge of a beard for apparently the fellow feared shaving off his luck.
Well, poor sod could take a razor to those bristles tonight. Because with this last win, Paul had ousted the other from the tournament and now found himself in contention for the title. Jem Barnes would his final opponent. As fierce as that prizefighter was—Barnes' last challenger had had to be carried from the ring—Paul could not wait for the final battle, a mere ten days away.
He had focus, momentum, and he knew he could win it all.
The past weeks of ruthless physical training and stringent living had built up more than his musculature. The ascetic existence had, surprisingly, given him a measure of peace. For the first time in his life, Paul's head was clear. As he'd won rout after rout, gritting out the rough moments and never giving up, he'd begun to gain true confidence in himself. He was not destined to be a worthless failure. He wasn't destined to be anything.
He was responsible for creating his own future, and when it came to the ring, he was doing a damned good job of it. When it came to his marriage, however, he had a long way to go. His chest tightened.
If only Charity could have been there to see me win …
"'Ere you go, luvie. Nothin' but the best for the man o' the 'our." Winking, a buxom serving wench plunked a platter of roasted meat in front of him. "And if there's anythin' else you'd care to sample," she cooed, leaning over and showing him what was on the menu, "you just let me know."
"Thank you, I have what I need," he said.
With a good-natured pout, she went to ply her charms on Stickley, his bottle man, whose craggy face lit up with interest. Paul continued to mull over his untouched ale. The celebration around him only made him feel more alone. Because he wasn't interested in drinking or flirting or the general carrying on.
What he wanted was ... Charity.
He missed her gentle voice, her sly humor, the way her soft, sweet body fit perfectly with his. How could he have allowed his past to wreak havoc on his future? 'Twas a damnable thing, but it took his leaving to make him realize the value of what he'd left behind.
Though Charity's accusations had cut him to the core, he saw now that she hadn't been wrong. Not entirely, at any rate. While he had been innocent of wrongdoing where Rosalind was concerned, he
had
been guilty of carelessness. Cowardice. Once again, he'd run away from difficulties rather than facing them head on. He'd given up on his marriage before it had had time to fully flourish ... as, deep in his soul, he knew that it could.
Hell, after their wedding trip, they'd been halfway there already.
Determination charged through him, dispelling the bleakness. He was going to make things right with Charity. If he could best the fiercest fighters in England, then he surely could win over his sweet slip of a wife. He didn't care what it took; he would do whatever was necessary to regain her trust and get their marriage back on track ... even if it meant trying to make peace with her blasted father. He grimaced at the thought.
First thing on the morrow, he was returning to London. He had ten days before his final fight at Banstead Downs; he'd use the time to straighten out his marriage. God willing, his wife would be by his side when he took Barnes down in the championship round. Resolved, Paul went to take his leave of the party's host, who had a tankard in hand and a trollop on his lap.
"To bed so early? But there's plenty of festivities yet to come," Viscount Traymore protested.
"I'm returning to London in the morning. Business to attend to," Paul said.
The viscount frowned and rose so quickly that the trollop would have tumbled to the ground had Paul not caught her and set her on her feet.